Lots of words.

One of the best parts of my summer was my Fiction Writer's Workshop. I don't think I have the patience to be a writer but, then again, I don't have to start with War and Peace. I know I am a pretty keen observer of the human condition and I've done lot's of stuff in my life. Add to that a bit of proper punctuation and I can come up with a good story--when I'm patient enough to work on it.

As a creative, I know that stepping away from my vocational medium (Thanks Mr. DuChemins)fires up my brain in different ways that effect what I do when I get back to square one.

Here's a sample and I'm off:

Excercise: A man and a woman meet in a bar and have a conversation. In one version The woman (or man) is lying. In the next she's telling the truth.

Here's my offering:

Monica and Mr Grey; Scene 1
Daniel J. Gruen
  
 Monica said, “It’s like I’m married to my own personal ‘Mr. Grey’.”, referencing the wildly popular pulp novels dubbed “mommie-porn” by the media.
   
She idly swirled the ice in her now watery double-shot of Wild Turkey and looked at me from under slightly hooded eyes. Monica held my gaze until it was just a bit uncomfortable and then looked up and beyond me. Every detail she shared was more explicit than the last. She and her husband had a “safe word” (raspberry), he had studied up on sailing knots (bowline and half-hitch) and she enjoyed the light bondage/discipline games they had started playing.
  
 She settled in her bar stool and took a drag from her cigarette making the burning ember at the tip glow cherry-red. This was not the Monica Chamberlain I was used to.
   
The fact that Monica was more than a little drunk and telling me seriously intimate details about her relationship with her husband was a bit bothersome. Why was she telling me? What did she want? There was no doubt in my mind she was telling me the truth. Her body language had confirmed that fact. What did she expect from me?






Monica and Mr Grey; Scene 2
   
Monica said, “It’s like I’m married to my own personal ‘Mr. Grey’.”, referencing the wildly popular pulp novels dubbed “mommie-porn” by the media.
  
 She swirled the ice in her now watery double-shot of Wild Turkey with her finger; wiping her mouth with a napkin after licking the finger clean. She looked at me from under slightly hooded eyes and held my gaze for the merest of seconds before breaking eye contact to look at the carpet beyond me. Every  detail she shared was more explicit than the last. She and her husband had a “safe word” (raspberry), he had studied up on sailing knots (bowline and half-hitch)and she enjoyed the light bondage/discipline games they had started playing.
  
 She fidgeted on her bar stool and took another drag from her cigarette. Finally, the impossibly long ash at the tip fell into her lap giving her a legitimate reason to squirm in her seat. This was not the Monica Chamberlain I was used to.
  
 The fact that Monica was more than a little drunk and fabricating seriously intimate details about her relationship with her husband was a bit bothersome. This normally calm and self-assured woman was acting nothing like her usual self. There was no doubt in my mind she was lying her ass off. I just didn’t know why she felt the need to.

Can spending some time writing translate into a more lyrical quality to my photographs?

Does putting creative energy into something completely out of my field benefit me to the same degree as intensive work within my field?

In know what the answer is for me. It all falls into a discussion of creativity vs. craft.

That's for another day.

Ciao Bella,

Dano